The Calligraphy Sage stepped out of the pavilion, then suddenly turned back and asked:

“The last line of this poem is missing three characters. Did he not write them, or are they written elsewhere?”

Chess Ghost remained silent. Li Ying trembled slightly, her hand clutching the small notebook in her sleeve, but said: “He didn’t write them.”

She had already torn off the page with “growing potatoes,” though she didn’t know why she had lied.

The Calligraphy Sage gave her a long, deep look, then turned away. Ji Chen hurriedly followed, nearly tripping over his own overly elaborate ceremonial robe.

“Let’s go!” Chess Ghost led Li Ying and Qing Wei down the mountain from another path.

Both men had the same destination yet insisted on taking different routes.

After their figures disappeared, Immortal Xu Yun rose and breathed a sigh of relief.

He didn’t know why the Calligraphy Sage and Chess Ghost had gathered or why they had parted on unfriendly terms, but he had a bad feeling.

Since Song Qian Ji had called out the name “Xian Jian Chen” in Qian Kun Hall, this was the third time he’d had such a premonition.

Something significant that he didn’t know about was happening within the Hua Wei Sect, possibly with serious consequences.

Just then, he received a message talisman from his daughter Chen Hong Zhu.

“A meeting at Qian Kun Hall with all Peak Masters and Elders to discuss an important matter.”

As clouds gathered and dispersed, after a brief period of emptiness at Star-Plucking Platform, another group of young cultivators arrived.

They were in high spirits, many so excited they hadn’t slept all night. Some had even wanted to come early but feared displeasing the Sage.

Finally reaching the summit at the second mark of the Chen hour, they found Star-Plucking Platform deserted.

“What did the Sage invite us to see?”

“There are four lines of poetry carved here!”

Zhao Ji and Wei Zhan Yang were the first to rush into the pavilion and the first to see the characters on the stone table.

Zhao Ji touched the indented stone marks and shuddered slightly: “Not carved with a knife—someone used an extremely soft small brush to write this.”

Someone else asked: “Could it be that the Calligraphy Sage wrote this for us to study, hoping we would observe the poem and comprehend the true meaning of his brushwork?”

Wei Zhan Yang shook his head: “My family has a genuine work by the Calligraphy Sage. The old master’s calligraphy is vigorous and powerful, with the charm of a vast ocean and the momentum of divine authority descending from heaven. The first line of this poem is free-flowing and lively, like willow catkins drifting in the spring breeze—not written by the Calligraphy Sage.”

“I wish to add spring breeze to my wine for intoxication.” Someone recited, then puzzled, asked, “A doggerel poem, not even completed—what’s so remarkable about it?”

“Marvelous!” A talisman master from the academy exclaimed excitedly, “In the first line, the characters for ‘spring breeze’ are as delicate as gossamer, while ‘intoxication’ is written with intermittent strokes. The writer’s drunken state leaps vividly from the page. Within the light and elegant strokes, the brush force penetrates stone; intention precedes form, and though the form scatters, the spirit remains…”

Many people initially didn’t find it remarkable, but after receiving guidance, they found the strokes increasingly imbued with ineffable charm, realizing it was their limited vision that prevented them from seeing its excellence.

Another talisman master said: “The second line’s brush force transitions from light to heavy, yet naturally like a river rising—without any trace of artifice. The final stroke of the character ‘cease’ in ‘let all matters cease’ is like a scholar waving his sleeve in the wind, bidding farewell to floating clouds. I think this line is the most wonderful!”

“No, the third line is the best: ‘Among the world’s heroes, who could be my match,’ with grand opening and closing strokes, supremely imposing, like a giant wielding a blade to cleave heaven and earth.”

Arguments erupted, with paper and ink flying everywhere as people rushed to make rubbings and copy the calligraphy from the stone table.

Fine calligraphy from a master becomes a model. This poem was named by people as the “Hero’s Calligraphy.”

“So when the Calligraphy Sage invited us to see who could surpass this and become his disciple, he wanted us to sincerely acknowledge its superiority.”

The speaker was Wei Zhan Yang. After speaking, he lowered his head and descended the mountain.

At this moment, he didn’t want to look at the “Hero’s Calligraphy” anymore, nor did he wish to recall his failure.

Suddenly someone asked: “Such excellent calligraphy—who wrote it?”

“The characters for ‘intoxication’ in the Hero’s Calligraphy are similar to the brush style of the Chicken Egg Calligraphy—they must be by the same hand!”

Last night in Qian Kun Hall, Ji Chen had been exposed by Ji Guang and had actually admitted that he couldn’t write calligraphy at all.

If not him, then who?

Everyone looked around in confusion, seeing no likely candidates.

Someone sighed: “During the calligraphy and painting examination, I sat at the desk in front of Ji Chen and heard him clap his hands in delight over the ‘chicken egg,’ and I even turned back to glare at him. Ah, if only I had known…”

He was suddenly interrupted: “You sat in front of him—who sat beside him?!”

The scene fell instantly silent.

Until someone softly spoke that name, with hesitant disbelief: “Song… Song Qian Ji?”

Though unwilling to believe it, everyone had seen it with their own eyes.

After Zhao Ji had written on the rock wall, he brought Zhao Ji Heng to provoke Song Qian Ji. The latter had first mocked Song Qian Ji’s wildflower drawing, then held up Ji Chen’s scroll, laughing at the mere circle on it.

The author of the Hero’s Calligraphy was the Hua Wei Sect outer disciple Song Qian Ji!

Could it be that the Calligraphy Sage’s truly favored successor was Song Qian Ji?

A group of people gathered together, unpacking layer after layer, finally piecing together the truth.

“Really? Is it Song Qian Ji? I remember he wasn’t even a talisman master. Could he be a hidden expert?”

“If you couldn’t tell, it shows your poor judgment. I knew all along he was no ordinary person!”

“Hey, weren’t you the one laughing the loudest at the wildflower drawing?”

The lofty Star-Plucking Platform had never been so lively.

Only Zhao Ji stood in a daze.

The first time he’d seen Song Qian Ji was at the waterside pavilion outside Yao Guang Lake. He had drawn a portrait of a beauty, only to be ignored by her.

The second time they met was at the calligraphy and painting examination by Colorful Stone Creek. He had written on the rock wall, basking in glory, only to be ignored by the Calligraphy Sage.

He had always thought that he and Song Qian Ji were from two different worlds, that the other was merely an outer disciple who’d had a stroke of luck.

Today he realized how wrong he’d been.

But why did his years of diligent practice not match up to another’s casually written doggerel poem?

Why did his painstaking study and imitation of the Calligraphy Sage’s youthful style not compare to someone else touching a few stones and drawing a wildflower?

He stared fixedly at the stone table, his face deathly pale, blood seeping from the corners of his lips.

Yet he only cared about pushing through the crowd, stumbling distractedly into the forest.

Star-Plucking Platform remained lively, the discussions growing louder.

“After ‘seeking immortality is not as good as,’ there are three missing characters. The poem’s punch line—why wasn’t it written?”

Like the world-shocking zither piece that ended abruptly with a broken string, it left people regretful.

“But what in the world could be more important than seeking immortality?”

A scholar from the academy waved his folding fan: “A poem says, ‘Willing to die as paired fish, envying only mandarin ducks, not immortals’—in my view, the last line should be ‘seeking immortality is not as good as staying together forever.'”

“Not necessarily. This poem has a broad vision; how could it be confined to mere romance?” Another talisman cultivator said, “I guess it’s ‘seeking immortality is not as good as drawing a talisman’!”

Answers varied wildly, with some analyzing earnestly while others made outlandish guesses.

“Seeking immortality is not as good as seeking fortune,” “Seeking immortality is not as good as seeking wealth,” “Seeking immortality is not as good as being carried away,” and so on.

Finally, people concluded:

“Whatever the hundred comparisons might be, none compares to leaving those three characters blank, allowing each copyist to express their intention. A zither has its unfinished melody, calligraphy has its incomplete poem—these fragments should be called ‘the Twin Marvels of Deng Wen’!”

…

Song Qian Ji remained completely unaware of the approaching crisis.

He was encouraging himself to be strong and resilient:

“Even if I got drunk, it didn’t affect my plans to go down the mountain to farm.”

He had watered each flower and plant, turned the soil, checked whether the flower trellises were secure, and buried withered flowers and decaying leaves.

Finally, standing under the eaves, he pasted up a new light-gathering talisman.

The tender lotus in the vat was just emerging, like a small, round bronze coin floating to the surface.

Song Qian Ji felt his storage pouch and took out several rain-pattern stones with brilliant patterns.

This was his greatest gain from participating in the calligraphy and painting examination.

“Plop.”

The small stone fell into the water, instantly causing ripples in the reflected sky, clouds, and his face, spreading ring after ring.

He touched the coin-shaped leaf and softly hummed:

“One red and one green, red and green urging the new lotus. One county and one county, a lifetime not enough to plant them all, not enough!”

Two white-bellied magpies landed on the flower trellis, chirping in turns as if responding to him.

“What can never be fully planted?” someone at the door asked.

Song Qian Ji turned toward the voice.

He saw a person in black clothes stepping directly across the threshold.

Entering uninvited.

As this person entered, the magpies fell silent, and the insects stopped singing.

Amidst the swaying flowers and trees in the garden, a subtle change in the atmosphere occurred.

The vibrant spring vitality seemed to be covered with a layer of coldness.

Song Qian Ji frowned slightly. The Spring of Immortality in his Purple Palace trembled as if warning him.

The visitor had a youthful face with delicate, perfectly symmetrical features, as if meticulously carved by the Heavenly Dao.

“Who might you be?” Song Qian Ji asked, though he already had a guess.

The person smiled: “Last night, you should have seen me.”

An uninvited guest! Alarm bells rang loudly in Song Qian Ji’s mind.

His mind was working now that he had sobered up.

He Yuan Yuan hadn’t revealed his identity. But He Yuan Yuan’s zither music was too distinctive, and her background too simple.

No relatives, no friends—the places she had been, the people she had met, how others treated her… With the status and resources of a Divine Transformation stage powerhouse, if one had the will, it would be easy to investigate.

Could it be that the Zither Immortal had come looking for the composer of the Zither piece?

Song Qian Ji took a light breath—Elder Xian Jian Chen, it’s your turn to appear again!

I’ve put you through so much trouble!